


Rhythm

by wolf antlers (space_adventures)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Human Sacrifice, Implied/Referenced Cannibalism, Ritual Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:48:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26406007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/space_adventures/pseuds/wolf%20antlers
Summary: And then, drum beats.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Kudos: 4





	Rhythm

**Author's Note:**

> So I had to be bullied into posting this (and the other two fics I'm going to post in a bit) because otherwise, my procrastinating ass would've sat on these for eternity. I hope it's decent, lol.
> 
> Prompt:
>
>> At nights there were drums in the distance. Not the martial roll of marching, nor yet a threatening note of savage hate. Just drums, many miles away, throbbing rhythm for native dances or exorcising, perhaps, the forest-night demons.  
> \- Happy Ending by Mack Reynolds & Fredric Brown
> 
> This was also inspired by some trashy, problematic romance novel from the 80s or 90s.
> 
> Beta'ed by Raven. As usual, any remaining mistakes are my own. Please tell me if I'm missing any tags.

Like peals of thunder, the drums sounded. Like the hoofbeats of a thousand horses or a tribe of celebratory savages. Harry woke to darkness, as he had for the past week.

Harry went to the window, warm feet chilling on the icy wood floor. He brushed away the long mosquito net, peering out as far as he could in the weak moonlight. In the grove, a place everyone had told him to stay away from, was a warm glow and a cloud of smoke. He pushed the window up to see further out, and as he leaned against the sill he marvelled at how loud they sounded, as if they were just outside.

According to Mrs Weasley, it was preparation for one of the festivals the native peoples threw. Sacred times, she called it, all hush-hush in the alcove by the stairs. She didn't elaborate much beyond that, and he didn't want to insult her by enquiring too far into her culture.

He sat for a while, listening to the rhythmic thumps of the drums, dozing slightly on the window seat. He leaned against the sill until light filled the sky once more, and he watched as the Weasley children ran across the grass and back into the servants quarters, barefoot and cheerful.

He found he could empathise with them easily. There was little joy to be found on the island, and hostilities everywhere he turned. Perhaps he could come to understand the music, in time.

* * *

The house was large, full of tasteful antiques and busts of family members long passed. Mr Riddle didn't seem to care much about it and instead cared more for profile and money. Mr Riddle hated cooperation and wouldn't even talk to Harry. He was given no leads, no one talked to him, and he hadn't even seen a photo of the man he was looking for.

Hunting down the man's estranged son seemed like a lost cause.

Harry nervously broached the topic of the drums at breakfast, once all the servants had left the room.

"Mr Riddle, sir, what is the festival the natives are preparing for?"

A vicious scowl twisted his features, filled with a hatred Harry had never seen before. "I don't care to know," he said. "Don't ask me of them again."

Conversation was often neglected at meals, and it was once again — easily discarded as if it were worth nothing more than the faintest passing interest. Harry ate his eggs out of politeness rather than hunger; his appetite ruined by Mr Riddle's anger.

His curiosity lingered though.

* * *

Harry slept the next night undisturbed by the drums, though thoughts of them lingered, like dust particles in the air.

* * *

Sweat coated his skin, and his body felt stiff. The smell of smoke and lavender overwhelmed his nose and tickled his throat like a cough which never came, and his mouth tasted bitter like he'd sucked on a lemon.

He blinked his eyes open, wincing at the painfully bright firelight. He went to rub at them as he yawned but stopped short when he realised he couldn't. Ropes, which hadn't been tight enough to notice earlier, rubbed against his wrists.

Fear spread through him, but he controlled it as quickly as it came. He knew fear as well as the back of his hand. He clenched his fists, evening his breathing out again. There was a throbbing in his head, a headache made worse by his lack of glasses and the flickering of fire in front of him.

And then, drum beats.

Thump, thump, thump, in time with the ache in his skull.

A hand cupped his cheek with more force than necessary, tilting his head up. It was impossible to see anything against the light of the fire, but he could make out a face after his glasses were carefully slid onto his face.

"Harry Potter," the person said, voice careful and hardly accented like the other natives he'd heard. "The latest addition at the Riddle House."

"What of it?" He found it hard to talk past the dryness of his mouth. The fingernails in his cheek pressed deeper, and Harry bit his other cheek to distract from the pain.

"That man," the figure said, dropping from his tall stance to a quick crouch, finally letting Harry see some of his face. It was enough, however, to make him gasp. "That man is scum."

He looked remarkably like Mr Riddle, but his eyes were dark, far darker than Mr Riddle's pale blue. His face was younger too, free of the frown lines plaguing his employer. The most stand out feature though, was the jagged scar running down his face, thick and raised enough to cast a slight shadow.

A woman came up to them then, preventing more dialogue from what could only be Mr Riddle's son. Her hair was wild, her smile deranged, and Harry thought she could be scary if he wasn't scared enough already. She whispered something in another language, perhaps French, and the man addressed everyone in the same tongue.

Harry could admire the way he commanded the people, the way they all froze the moment he opened his mouth. He couldn't see any faces from his unfortunate position close to the fire, but he could assume the Weasleys were there. In fact, from the vague outlines he could see, he guessed there were close to a hundred people in total; he hadn't thought there were that many on the whole island.

He finished his speech and kneeled in front of Harry again, a gentle smile on his face.

"It's unfortunate, but supporting that man means only one thing for you." He stood up once more, and a couple of people pulled Harry up to his feet.

They pulled him closer to the fire and his stomach sunk as he realised what was going to happen.

A sacrifice.

This was why Mrs Weasley hadn't told him more. Because her people were going to sacrifice him on their bonfire, perhaps consume his cooked flesh, and he would bet Mr Riddle's son was the one who chose him. No wonder Mr Riddle had been virtually useless during the investigation.

The drumming started again.

"Wait!" They stopped and Harry slumped between them. Perhaps he had been drugged; he was unnaturally lethargic. He found his footing under the man's intense stare, and said, "I don't support him, or whatever you mean by that. I’m unhirable on the Mainland, but he—he offered me a job here. He doesn’t like me—"

“Quiet.” The man looked at him for a few seconds, scanning his face with his eyes, and then there was the most curious sensation inside his head. Mr Riddle's son frowned, much more delicately than his father, like he didn’t do it often, and said, "He's telling the truth."

His relief was short-lived, however, when two things happened at once.

"We'll keep him, bring out the other one. We must _feast_."

A man holding a large stick appeared out of the sea of people, the weapon swinging towards Harry's head.

And black.

**Author's Note:**

> A little addition, just in case: I don't condone, endorse or support racism and I don't view native peoples as tribal savages. Thanks for reading! (:


End file.
